


vday fic meme fills

by lostemotion (geckoholic)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Terminator Genisys (2015), The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bathtubs, Bubble Bath, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Head scratches, Hurt/Comfort, Sharing Clothes, saying i love you for the first time, wearing each other's clothes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:29:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/lostemotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For valentines day, I took prompts for the non-sexual intimacy meme that had been making the rounds on tumblr, and I'm collecting the fills here. Various fandoms and pairings, and I'll be adding more fills as I get them done.</p><p><b>INDEX:</b><br/>Chapter 01:♟ (patching up a wound) for Terminator Genisys, Sarah/Kyle<br/>Chapter 02: ♤ (taking a bath together) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate<br/>Chapter 03: ♥ (reacting to the other one crying about something) for The 100, Raven/Bellamy<br/>Chapter 04: ♚ (head scratches) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate<br/>Chapter 05: ♔ (finding the other wearing their clothes) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ♟(patching up a wound) for Terminator Genisys, Sarah/Kyle, requested by alylicious

**Author's Note:**

> All of this is going to be short and unbeta'd flashfic, so you may keep any stray typos or grammar snafus you might find. :P (I wouldn't mind having them pointed out though.)

They get a year. Twelve months spent with hope, just enough time to convince themselves it's really over, Skynet is dead and the future Kyle lived through will never come to pass. It's pure luck that they're in an underground parking lot in Washington when the bombs fall, near an underground bunker kept for the government. Pops breaks the lock, and they bide their time with a small group of people that had been on their morning commute and that neither of them could justify leaving behind, until he deems it save to go outside another couple months later. 

Sarah walks through the ash and ruins of what used to be a city housing _millions_ , and she can't remember ever crying this hard. She clings to Kyle, who's pale as a ghost but doesn't say anything; the sight of ruins like these is familiar to him, although they wouldn't have been quite as fresh when he was a kid. She almost trips over half a skull that has been melted into the pavement, and throws up right then and there, heaving until her stomach cramps and aches from it and her head starts pounding. 

 

***

 

Years later, they'll find out that Skynet survived the explosion at Cyberdyne and learned from it, learned to stay hidden, integrate itself into internet and hook its tendrils into it in secret. 

 

***

 

Building the revolution takes time. Kyle remembers some tactical information, military bases that survived and that they could raid, had in his future, and names of people that were around when he was a child and that they could try and seek out. Even so, the wast majority of survivors they encounter aren't fighters. They're accountants and factory workers and waiters and secretaries, and not all of them manage to cope with how their world changed. Sarah watches a bunch of them literally lose their minds, get slaughtered because they couldn't transform themselves into something different than they've been. 

She can't really blame them. She's also trying really hard not to blame herself. 

 

*** 

 

It doesn't take long for Skynet to find them, and from that day forward, they're in near constant combat, playing cat and mouse with an enemy so much more powerful than they are. Even so, they never once talk about giving up. There has to be a way. 

 

***

 

The first work camps get established in 2019. Kyle is too much of a solider, too much of a realist, to try and free every camp they encounter, but every once in a while he'll insist they at least sneak in and save _some_ of them. It's nothing more than a drop in a bucket – a handful of people here and there, when Skynet interns _thousands_ – and yet Sarah doesn't argue, won't even attempt to understand what this means to him. She just nods and lets him go, with a team she can't be part of because this fledgling resistance can't afford to lose them both, and she waits and hopes he'll return to her unharmed. Most of the time, he does. Sometimes he doesn't. 

They're in Texas somewhere, running another one of these sneak attacks, when he's carried into the former shopping mall they're using as a base of operations by two of his teammates, uniform soaked red and face ashen, but he's awake and with it enough to pat her hand and tell her he's okay, she doesn't have to worry, it's not so bad. That's why she sends the doctors away, sends everyone away as soon as they've put him on one of the metal tables in a tiled room that used to be a communal bathroom and now serves as their infirmary. 

“You're an idiot,” she says as she collects thread and sewing needle and alcohol and a couple rags from a supply cupboard. “You're a fucking idiot.” 

He smiles at her, though it's slightly woozy, the way it looks when he's drunk or just woke up. “But you love me anyway.” 

Sarah puts two fingers to his neck to find his pulse, which is erratic but strong. She breathes a sigh of relief. “Not right now I don't.” 

That's a blatant lie and they both know it, made obvious in the way she brushes her hand down his jaw before she sets about cleaning the wound, a gun shot to the shoulder, messy but not in the neighborhood of anything essential. He bites his tongue through the whole process, doesn't make a single noise at the alcohol or the needle, but she knows how to read him; the hissed curses, the stutter in his breathing, they betray how much pain he's actually in. 

After she's done, Sarah throws away the rags and the sets the needle aside to be cleaned and disinfected, and then lies climbs onto the table next to him, fitting himself to his uninjured side, a precarious position on the narrow surface but she's small and doesn't take up much space compared to him. 

“Don't you dare die on me,” she whispers into his neck, barely loud enough for him to hear. “Swear to me you won't die.” 

Kyle's arms tighten around her, but he doesn't reply, doesn't offer comforting lies or make promises he can't keep. They learned their lesson on that one, good and proper. 

 

***

 

He's back out there less than a week later, and they both collect quite a number of scars over the coming years. But history hasn't given up on repeating itself yet, and in late 2024, the first nuggets of intelligence hinting at the time travel device reach the resistance headquarters. 

This time around, they go back together.


	2. ♤ (taking a bath together) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate, requested by monanotlisa

Clint hadn't thought it possible, but Kate's new place – the apartment her dad rented for her has obviously ceased to be an option – is even more decrepit than his. She still shares it with Billy and Teddy, technically, but they're rarely home these days. Which, yeah. If he had a boyfriend who can make space travel happen with basically a blink, he'd take advantage of it too. Their absence also works in his favor, because it means that he and Kate get plenty of alone time, away from prying eyes aka his tenants. All in all, Kate's new apartment is _great_. The best thing about it by far, though, Clint has decided, is the large old-fashioned tub taking up half the bathroom. By now, it's practically imbedded in their post-mission comedown program: they swing by his place to pick up Lucky, they get Chinese takeout or pizza, and after they've eaten, they will quietly get up, shed their clothes as they go and draw a bath. 

Their latest mission for SHIELD took up six days and involved two transatlantic flights, and as a result, this time, when they get home, they're not only exhausted beyond belief but also thoroughly jet-lagged. The night sky outside tells Clint it's night, but his body clock insists it's hardly noon. He's so groggy it's about to come back around into restless and giddy. One look at Kate as she unlocks the door to her apartment tells him she isn't doing any better. 

Lucky wriggles through their legs and heads straight for the couch, jumping on and then curling up into a ball, head resting on his paws, tongue lolling. If Clint knows him at all, he'll be dozing within ten minutes. He puts the takeout bag on the counter and nods his head at the dog. 

Kate does her best to manage a grin, Clint can see it's a valiant effort, but the fact that it flows out into a yawn spoils it a bit. “Good to know at least one of us is going to get a decent amount of sleep tonight.” 

She walks up to him and hugs him from behind, head resting against his shoulder blades, while he unpacks the food, and suddenly Clint's not even sure he's hungry. Kate's got a microwave. They can reheat this. 

“Bath first?” he asks, and Kate shifts against him, lifting herself up onto her tiptoes so she can press a kiss to the nape of his neck and ruffle his hair. 

“Sometimes your ideas aren't total garbage,” she says, which is apparently intended to be a reply to his suggestion, because she lets go of him and starts peeling herself out of her uniform as she heads for the bathroom. 

He'd point out that his ideas are usually _great_ and he doesn't even know what she's talking about, but he's tired and there's warm water waiting for him, with bubbles and those essences Kate buys that make the whole apartment smell like a Turkish bath house, and he can't quite muster up the indignation required to make this a discussion. Instead he follows her example, pulls his shirt over his head and throws it at Lucky as he passes the couch, who shakes it off with a displeased rumble. 

When Clint catches up with her in the bathroom, Kate's already filling up the tub, shedding the last of her clothes while steam begins to billow, fogging up the mirror, making it just a little harder to breathe. He takes a moment to hug her from behind like she did earlier, only with significantly less clothes between them, and she presses back into him, but this isn't about sex. All things considered, he's not even sure he could get it up, worn out as he is. No, this is about being together, relaxed and warm and comfortable, and forgetting about the rest of the world. 

After she's added her oils and scents and closed off the tab, Clint climbs in first. The tub is large, but not quite large enough that they'd fit in next to each other, and so she climbs in after him, settling against his chest after she shampooed and dunked her head, and he closes his arms around her waist and holds her tight. Her hair floats in the water around him, tickling a little, but he couldn't care less. 

They stay like that until the water turns too cold to be enjoyable, and even then they only reluctantly rinse themselves off and relocate to bed. Clint falls asleep with her head fitted into the crock of his neck and one of her arms slung around his body, the smell of shampoo and bathing essences from her still-damp hair in his nose, and in that very moment, his life couldn't be any more perfect.


	3. ♥ (reacting to the other one crying about something) for The 100, Raven/Bellamy, requested by sixphanel

Not just since they crashed to Earth, Bellamy knows his way around someone else's emotional turmoil. The big game, life-or-death situations are new, and in the privacy of his own mind he'll admit that he's making that shit up as he goes along. Badly, sometimes. But quiet comfort, keeping by someone's side as a steady, soothing presence, that he can do. He's had more than enough practice. 

Raven falls into his arms and they watch Finn die, watch Clarke _kill_ him, and suddenly he's back on familiar ground. Suddenly he's part of a crisis he knows how to deal with. 

He hauls her to her feet, after. The crowd disperses slowly, shouted orders to get inside falling on deaf ears, everyone's attention still focused on what happens outside the gates, and they only catch a few sympathetic glances in the dark. He maneuvers her through the clusters of people with one hand on the small of her back and the other gripping her upper arm. She follows without resistance, mutely walks in whichever direction he points her, and for Raven, that just feels plain _wrong_. 

He doesn't spare much thought about where he's taking her until her work station comes into view, and it's not ideal, but none one's gotten quarters assigned yet, and as far as he knows she's slept either here or in the infirmary anyway. It'll do, he decides. Every available surface is covered in tools and parts he has no first idea about, and he waits for a reprimand from her when he shuffles them around, snapping at him not to touch this or be more careful with that, dammit, but she stays silent. Weren't it for the way her eyes follow his every move, he'd be worried she'd gone catatonic. 

Once he's cleared a space for her to lie down on a pile of crates and spread out a blanket on top of it, he points at it, rather helplessly, and she narrows her eyes, glancing at him, then down at the make shift bed. But she stands from where he's positioned her and lies down. He hovers awkwardly for a minute or two, before mumbles a promise to check on her in the morning and turns to leave her alone. 

Her hand wraps around his wrist before he can make a step towards the door, and that's how he ends up sat next to the crates, the back of his head resting on her thigh, guarding her fitful sleep until he eventually drifts off himself. 

 

***

 

In the morning, it's her who nudges him awake. There are large, dark bags under her eyes and her face is set in a stony mask, but she's muttering to herself about how much of a mess he made and how she'll never allow him near her tools again. He manages not to sigh with relief, because that would be weird, but it's a near thing. 

Less than a day later, he's donning Grounder gear and heading off into the belly of the beast. The next time he sees her, she's strapped to a table and drilled into without anesthesia, mere minutes before he doubles the number of deaths that weigh on his conscience. 

They witness each other's darkest moments. It's just how life is, on the ground. 

 

***

 

After Mount Weather, the settlement that used to be the Ark tentatively slips into a fragile new normal. Their path cross some days, don't on others. Some wounds heal. Others scrape over badly. 

He's on his way to her quarters to recruit her for a scouting mission – they all have quarters now, no sleeping in work stations anymore – and he doesn't think twice before barging in without a knock or a shout to announce himself, didn't consider the possibility that he might be intruding. 

He finds her sat on her cot, the raven figure on the chain around her neck held with both hands, and when her head snaps up to him her eyes are wet, tears clinging to her lashes. 

Raven drops the figure like it suddenly turned scalding hot, and wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand. She takes a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the force of it, and glances back up at him, her expression a challenge. “Jeez, Blake, ever heard of knocking? I know you've seen me naked, but at least _pretend_ you have some boundaries left.” 

It'd be easy to take it, to think of a quippy comeback, let her collect herself and pretend this never happened, but he was there when her legs gave up on her and she fell to the muddy ground, held her when she yelled out her pain. And then he left, and no one ever talked about it again. 

She startles when he crosses the room in two long strides and sits down next to her. She looks at him like he's grown a second head. He tries to gather her in, and she resists, eyes wide, as if about to ask him if he's for real. And maybe this was a mistake, maybe he should have let her – 

“You're a fucking asshole,” she says, but it's completely free of vitriol, almost sounds fond, and she rests her head on his shoulder with a deep sigh. Fresh tears seep into the fabric of his shirt, and he holds her closer, slots her into his side like she never belonged anywhere else.


	4. ♚ (head scratches) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate, requested by doreyg

The sun is setting outside, bathing the skyline in an array of fluffy bubblegum-like colors, and Kate burrows deeper into the sheets; burrows deeper into the heat of Clint's body against her back. They came home around 6 AM and went to bed in an exhausted haze, and she has long since stopped mourning the fact that superheroing turns your internal clock on its head at least twice a week. She yawns and stretches, turns around so she can see his face. He's still asleep, and his expression is peaceful and relaxed. A rare sight, that, but such a pretty one. She leans in and softly presses her lips to his, morning breath be damned. 

He stirs and blinks, and she feels a little guilty. She didn't mean to wake him. 

“Hey, Hawkeye,” he murmurs, barely audible. One hand comes up, clumsily paws at her neck and drags her down towards him. Kate's all too content to relent and fit herself into his arms. 

The bed is warm, and it smells like her and it smells like him, and even though almost every part of her body aches in some way and she can feel a headache coming on, she's _happy_. 

Apparently coming awake a bit more, Clint's rearranging her against him, bringing a little more space between them, just enough so he has room start kissing a line up her throat, his mouth soft against her skin. Kate taps his shoulders until he lifts his head to look at her, listening. 

“I love you,” she says, apropos of nothing, and bites her lips once it's out. They haven't said it yet. Not with so many words, and not with, well. Romantic intent. 

Clint freezes against her, and Kate curses herself, curses him, curses everything in his life that made him so _scared_. And he gets scared a lot; she knows that. The bad stuff scares him, as it does everyone, but sometimes it's like the good stuff scares him even more. 

She sits up and pulls at his arm to make him follow. He does, despite not quite being able to hold her gaze. 

“This is nothing to be afraid of, okay?” she says, raising his head up with her fingertips so he'll catch what she's saying, and waits for him to nod; it's not even a tiny bit convincing, and she decisively shakes her head. “No. Really. It's not. Besides, this isn't news either. I love you. You love me. We both knew that.” 

“Yeah,” he says, but he's still sort of looking at his hands. “I guess.” 

Kate heaves a deep, extra-long sigh, and then she reaches out and ruffles his hair. She scratches the messy spikes it's in, the kind of full-on bedhead that he has when when he went to bed without showering yesterday's hair gel out. He leans into the touch and closes his eyes, a smile ghosting across his features. Kate inches in closer, puts her mouth right to his ear. 

“I love you,” she tells him again. “You're a flaming dumpster fire of a person, sometimes, but you're _my_ flaming dumpster fire of a person and _I love you_.” 

Wrapping her declarations of love into an insult of sorts may seem strange to anyone else, but it does its job. He cracks one eye open and peers at her, mock-affronted. “Is that so?” 

“Yes,” she says, puts her palm on his chest, fingers fanned out, and pushes. They slide down the headboard in an ungainly sprawl. 

He tangles a hand into her hair and and kisses her. Then he takes a deep breath, fixes her face between both hands and searches for her gaze, looking at her head-on. “I love you too, Hawkeye. _I love you too._ ”


	5. ♔ (finding the other wearing their clothes) for Marvel 616, Clint/Kate, requested by scribblemyname

They've had a few mornings after at this point. The number settles somewhere between still being able to count them on two hands and just losing track, and either way, Kate has slept over when they were still _just friends_. He's getting comfortable with the idea that he'll wake up and find her smaller body slotted neatly into his larger frame. He's getting comfortable with the idea of _them_. 

This morning, however, he wakes in bed alone. That high-strung, panicky voice in the back of his head pipes up immediately. It urges him to examine last night, find a reason why she'd upped and left, run out on him like everyone always does. Clint wants to jump out of bed, search the apartment for her or find his phone, but he forces himself to stay calm. The sheets next to him are rumpled in a very distinct, Kate-like shape and still warm, and he sits up, listens, _breathes_. Before long he hears her rummaging around in the kitchen downstairs. 

She hasn't gone anywhere. She merely got hungry, or developed a sudden craving for caffeine. Both are likely scenarios for Kate. For both of them, really. That could just as well be him down there. 

Clint gets up slowly and doesn't bother getting dressed beyond a fresh pair of boxers before he pads downstairs. He settles on one of the bar stools, rubs his eyes with his knuckles and yawns. “Good morning, Hawkeye.” 

A cup full of steaming hot coffee appears in front of him unasked, and yep, okay, caffeine craving then. He wraps both hands around it and takes a sip, full well expecting to burn his lip but cursing under his breath anyway. He's got _priorities_. 

Kate heaves a sigh at him and pries the mug from him despite his grunted protest, and he hears her blow at the contents, stir it with a spoon. 

“You're like one of these chimps in the experiments they show on the discovery channel,” she chides. “Your brain is all pleasure center, always reaching for the treats in complete disregard of your safety.”

She might have a point regarding his mental capacity, because the only reply that comes to mind is a complaint that she ought to talk in shorter sentences, he can't keep up barely five minutes after waking. But he looks, up, then, and he's struck dumb and mute by the sight of her. Her hair sticks up in places, bed head with a side of sex-ruffled. The rest of it falls down her shoulders, framing her face in an unruly sea of black. She's wearing an ugly old band shirt that's at least three sizes too large, and Clint belatedly realizes that it's one of his own. Seventies pop band design, batik and all, once screaming yellow and blue but now it's washed out and threadbare. It's so big on her that it hangs sideways, leaving one shoulder bare. 

“What?” Kate demands, having caught him staring. She cocks her head and wraps her hands more firmly around his mug, all set to hold it hostage should he refuse to answer. 

Clint swallows a little. “You look...” he starts, but trails off. _You're wearing my clothes and it's awfully cliched, but hey, that really works for me_ seems like such a dumb thing to say. 

Her hand comes up to pick at her hair. “I know. I'll take a shower later. Coffee first, though, I'm sure I don't have to explain that one to _you_.”

And yes, she's definitely been onto something earlier with his brain and its predominant pleasure center, because instead of trying to find the right words, Clint rises to his feet and walks around the counter, uncurls her fingers from the mug and takes her hand. He sits back down on another stool, and drags her onto his lap, both of them perched precariously on the small plastic seat. Her eyebrows shoot up and he kisses her by the way of a reply, shoving one hand up the back of her shirt – _his_ shirt – and groaning a little when his palm touches her skin. She leans into the touch, arching her back, and he embraces her with both arms, pinning her in place. 

“I like the shirt,” he says when they part, and licks his lips. “Looks good on you.” 

Kate laughs, even as she wriggles free. She slides off his lap to occupy her own bar stool, and redistributes the coffee mugs. 

“Coffee. Shower. _Then_ I might put it back on just so you can slowly peel it off me,” she says, winking at him. It's supposed to be smooth, but she can't quite manage to keep her other eye open and it lands a lot closer to adorable. 

Clint picks up his mug and smiles, broad and happy, her mirth contagious. “You got it, Hawkeye.”

**Author's Note:**

> [lostemotion@tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com/)


End file.
